Taken: Part 2 of 3. Rosie Lewis
him for a few seconds, the new angles to his chin, the leanness of his cheeks. Time passed so quickly.
‘Because if you’re trying to please me …’ I started up again. His eyes drifted from me to the TV screen and slowly, reluctantly, back again. ‘Or Emily, or you think it might sound mean to say you’d rather not keep her –’
‘Mum,’ he cut in, resting the handset on his lap with a long-suffering sigh. ‘I’m not being rude, but can you stop talking now? Cos I didn’t get to play FIFA at all yesterday and every second we deliberate over this is another second I lag behind Ben. And if that happens my game plan is wrecked.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘D’you really want that on your conscience?’
Thrilled by their reaction, I called my mum later that day to see what she thought. ‘But you’re on your own,’ she said, sounding a little scandalised, although I sensed a frisson of excitement there too.
Soon after I separated from Gary I dug up the small garden in our first rented house with the intention of installing a lobster farm to make ends meet. Standing in a boggy mess after three days of digging, my fingers dotted with blisters, I found my enthusiasm waning. Ever since then Mum seemed to hold the view that I was wild and flighty. She still had kittens whenever I told her of one of my plans and seemed to feel the need to rein me in, playing devil’s advocate to make sure I’d thought through all the many ways good ideas can turn sour.
‘That doesn’t matter apparently.’
There was a pause. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t. There’s nothing to stop anyone doing anything nowadays,’ she said, with a trace of disappointment. ‘If they’re going to let transvestites and what have you adopt I don’t see why you shouldn’t be allowed. They do, you know,’ she stated insistently, as if I’d argued the point. ‘I saw it on a recruitment poster on the back of a bus the other day.’ A traditionalist and loyal reader of the Daily Mail, Mum was still struggling to come to terms with the installation of self-service checkouts in supermarkets. And the arrival of a gay couple in the maisonette above hers very nearly blew her mind. ‘They’re civilly partnershipped, you know,’ she told her every visitor with a sort of confused pride, as if she were the first person in England to be able to make such a claim.
‘Not that I’m against it,’ she said now. ‘Your grandmother would turn in her grave, but I’m not one to judge, you know me.’
I couldn’t suppress a snort at that.
‘What?’ she demanded, sounding injured. ‘Each to their own. What people do in the privacy of their own home isn’t any of my business. I just think it must a bit confusing, that’s all. Coming home from school and finding Daddy on the sofa, wearing a dress. Imagine!’ She gave a little titter. ‘You wouldn’t know whether you were coming or going, you really wouldn’t.’
‘So, anyway, Mum, what do you think about Megan?’
‘Oh goodness, someone else to worry about? Another mouth to feed? I love the little dot to pieces but haven’t you got enough on your plate?’
And so it was decided. I sent Peggy an email that evening and told her that I’d love to be considered to adopt Megan. She responded enthusiastically, saying that she was thrilled for all of us. I knew several foster carers who had been flatly refused when they asked to be considered as adopters for the children they were looking after, so I was heartened by her reaction. A few months earlier a fostering friend of mine, Jenny, made an application to keep Billy, a four-year-old boy who had lived with her for over a year. The local authority, fearing that Jenny might abscond with the child, had hurriedly arranged another placement for him.
‘Don’t tell me, I know,’ Mum said with mock exasperation when I called her the next morning. ‘Honest to goodness, I can’t keep up with it all,’ she added, but I could tell she was pleased.
The possibility of keeping Megan began to seem all the more real.
The following month, at the beginning of September, Peggy surprised us with an unexpected visit. ‘I won’t stay long,’ she said without preliminaries, heavy rain beating down on the path behind her. Megan had followed me along the hall with the sweet little hum she always made when she crawled around – it was like being stalked by a large bumble bee – and clasped a fist around the leg of my jeans. With a loud oomph, she hauled herself to her feet and peered up at Peggy with a beaming smile.
‘Hello, trouble,’ the social worker said, looking down at her. She sounded reserved, no trace of her usual gusto.
‘Come here, pickle,’ I said, hoiking Megan onto my hip. Peggy turned and came into the house backwards, shaking her umbrella over the front step and then collapsing it down. I was beginning to feel uneasy. Peggy’s expression was grave as she tipped forward with a groan and rested the brolly against the wall. She looked close to tears. I squeezed her arm. ‘Are you all right? Have you brought bad news about Megan?’ Instinctively I held the toddler a little closer.
‘Oh no, nothing like that. We’re waiting for DNA results on someone who came forward claiming to be the father, but there’s been nothing back as yet. No,’ she said heavily, as she followed me through to the kitchen. She moved slowly, devoid of her usual industrious bounce. ‘There has been a complaint. I’ve been suspended while it’s being investigated.’
‘Oh no, Peggy! I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling guiltily relieved that it was nothing to do with our application to adopt. I lowered Megan to the floor and pulled out a stool for Peggy. She sank down on it with a gasp, the damp hem of her skirt clinging to her brown nylon tights. ‘What happened, or would you rather not say?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind saying all right. These bloody liberals, they make my blood boil. Would you mind?’ she said suddenly, banging her chest and inclining her head towards the kettle. ‘I’m parched.’
I shook my head. ‘Oh yes, sorry.’ As I reached across the worktop, Megan began to complain. Peggy reached down and pulled her onto her lap with another loud groan. Megan didn’t object but her eyes widened at the sudden change of perspective. She looked at me, questioning. I smiled and she relaxed, snuggling back into the social worker’s ample chest. A few minutes later I handed Peggy a mug of steaming tea and Megan some milk. ‘Is that strong enough?’
‘It’s wet and warm, that’ll do me,’ Peggy wheezed, seizing the mug and trying to fend off Megan’s inquisitive hand, which was straying down the front of her blouse. I reached for the toddler and sat her on the worktop in front of me, looping her short legs around my trunk so that she wouldn’t fall off. Megan watched Peggy gulping down her tea with interest. ‘It all came about after I spoke to Christina about getting fitted with a long-term contraceptive device,’ confided Peggy, ‘on account of the fact that if she doesn’t, she’s likely to be pregnant again before the ink is dry on Megan’s adoption certificate. She will, you know, left to her own devices. So anyway, I suggested, gently mind,’ she lifted one of her hands in mock surrender and I bit down on my lip to suppress a smile; it was difficult to imagine Peggy doing anything subtly, ‘that she consider it an option.’
I grimaced. ‘And she didn’t take it well?’
Peggy leaned back and let out a huff of exasperation. ‘Well, that’s just the thing. She didn’t take offence at all. She seemed to think it wasn’t a bad idea. Having Megan really took it out of her, physically and emotionally. I think she desperately wants a way out of the destructive cycle she’s in. She’s just not strong enough to do it alone.’
I frowned. ‘But she complained anyway?’
‘No, she didn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. One of my colleagues overheard the conversation and couldn’t resist putting her two-penneth in, but not to me directly. She reported me to the management. Now I’ve been suspended for inappropriate behaviour. Apparently my advice